


verbose.

by solacier



Category: Sanders Sides, Thomas Sanders
Genre: Angst, Implied Character Death, Platonic Relationships, Poetry, moxiety - Freeform, oops??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 20:40:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14316744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solacier/pseuds/solacier
Summary: No one believed him when Virgil said he nearly failed English in every year of his life.No one believed him when Virgil stated he only was able to form proper sentences when he was eightAnd yet, everyone believed him when he whispered, “I’m okay.[In which, words fail, and Virgil is left with a hole in his heart.]





	verbose.

**VERBOSE;**

 

_“Life without poetry,_

_Is a life without meaning.”_

 

* * *

 

No one believed him when Virgil said he nearly failed English in every year of his life.

No one believed him when Virgil stated he only was able to form proper sentences when he was eight.

And yet, everyone believed him when he whispered, “I’m okay.”

Then again, Virgil had a reputation; A reputation of _breathing poetry_. His words flowed in ways unimaginable, so the neighbors told him. They were spoken in such prose, in astronomical, _exhilarating_ tone that it put Shakespeare to shame. Virgil never got the last compliment. _Shakespeare wrote poetry back in what, 1580?_ He had no doubt in his mind that the only reason they said such words was the fact none of them had ever picked up _Venus and Adonis_ or _The Phoenix and the Turtle_. No, they only knew that Shakespeare was _good_. And that was the one thing Virgil couldn’t exactly disagree with. Shakespeare definitely had been elegant in his words - But Virgil thought Dante was infinitely better, even though he struggled with the language barrier for _years_.

Until he didn’t; Until his younger but ten times _older_ brother came into the picture.

Virgil exhaled, shaking his head as he tried to focus on the math homework in front of him. _Focus_ , he chided himself _, focus_. His thoughts shouldn’t still be wrapped up with his brother. His mind shouldn’t be connecting every single thing to him. Yet, Virgil’s every action reminded him of Patton. When the birds down the street next to Mrs. Harrison’s house chirped whenever Virgil went outside, he immediately fled back inside. He would lock himself in his room, try to drown himself in a scathing hot shower, and try to forget that _Patton_ ever existed. But it wasn’t just the birds, either - Anything that resembled anything _happy_ made Virgil’s heart tear apart. He couldn’t forget when everything reminded Virgil of Patton.

It’s why his journals laid untouched. All fifty-one.

They used to be filled to the brim with words: Poetry, in its ethereal form. Virgil had written down poetry more than he had written his own name. His reputation didn’t sprout from nothing, after all. On the rare pages in which Virgil didn’t write down poetry, he wrote lists. Lists, of words that refused to leave his head. He couldn’t remember where he had found words such as those, but Virgil knew that if he spoke of them, they would flow off his tongue as if he was calling a friend’s name. In which, well, Virgil had considered them to be. Until-

Virgil abruptly pushed himself away from his desk, his chair stuttering as it rolled across the carpet. He felt his shoulders quaking as he tightened his grip on the arm rest of the chair. The world began blurring violently, and Virgil quickly closed his eyes.

“Calm down,” he breathed, the soreness in his throat threatening to overtake him, “Calm...”

Virgil had fifty one journals. He had completed fifty of them. And then there was one more - Empty. No words graced the page, no ink bled into the thin pages. No, because for once in his life, Virgil’s verbose vocabulary left him. And it seemed so _childish_ , so _petty_ for his heart to be cracking at the thought. His words had been his _friends_ \- his group, and he would go as far as to say his family. Words that he had not been able to speak when he was a toddler were the perfect shield when he had finally been able to use them. And in poetry, in _poetry_ , Virgil felt safer than he had ever been.

He had received the fifty-first notebook as a gift; A random, no-special-occasion gift. From Patton, the _best younger brother Virgil had ever had_. Patton, only a mere days younger than him, always seemed infinitely older. He always protected Virgil when he was younger, when his stutter and lack of words threatened to injure him. Patton had forever been patient with him - every night, sacrificing his own free time, his own opportunity to be with his other _friends_ just to teach him to properly speak. And Virgil remembered hating it, those first sessions.

_“Stop treating me like I’m child!” Virgil had thrown his journal across the room, hitting the wall with a loud ‘thump.’ “I am not… Y-you’re younger! Lis-listen to me!”_

_Patton had given him a small smile and Virgil saw the pure emotion in his brown eyes. “I don’t think you’re a kid. I think you’re my brother.”_

And somehow, those words had sent a shockwave through Virgil’s heart. The words, _I think you’re my brother_ , breathed a new life into his soul. Virgil suddenly craved those lessons, craved learning every single new word his brother would teach him. _Maybe_ he had enjoyed them a little bit more when Patton began making cookies after every single one. _Possibly_ , he had enjoyed them even more when Patton let him help. _Perhaps_ … perhaps Virgil had loved those sessions because he would be with his brother. And it had been _Patton_ that pushed Virgil to write in those journals. It was _Patton_ who kept his hopes high even though he received failure after failure in English. Patton had _made_ Virgil in a way no one else could have.

But it had been _Virgil_ that lived longer.

“It’s not _fair_.” A tear ran down his face, his voice cracked. “It’s _not fair_.”

Patton Madison had been proclaimed dead a day after he gave Virgil that notebook. One day after Virgil promised Patton, “ _Yeah, yeah, the next one I’ll write will be about you.”_

_Patton had given him a cheeky grin. “And dogs.”_

_“And dogs,” Virgil agreed reluctantly._

A sob tore through his throat, and Virgil ripped his hands away from the chair. He covered his mouth, eyes wide as tears poured down his face. _Stop_ , he wanted to say, _Stop and calm down_.

“It was supposed to be _me_.” His mind was screaming at him, memories of Patton flashing in front of him. _Patton_ should’ve been the one to live. _Patton_ had had a future - _Patton_ was supposed to be the one breathing right now. Not Virgil, who had selfishly hidden away all his journals. And he refused, _refused_ to write the poem. After all, what was the purpose? To write something for someone who laid _six feet in the ground_? To write about someone, who Virgil couldn’t even begin to describe. All words failed when it came to Patton.

Virgil had never written the poem for Patton. No, for instead, on the first page he had written an entirely different poem. Virgil stared across his room, eyes landing on his shelf. His journals stood tall, prideless as dust became their new skin. No, after that final poem, Virgil refused to write ever again. He refused to use what Patton had taught him, when Patton himself was not here. He would never put pen to paper, he would never write the words that people so praised him for. He would take failing grade after failing grade, he would accept the patronizing speech from the principal. None of those things mattered.

Patton had mattered. But he was gone.

And so was Virgil’s will to write.

He stood up, gasping at air as his chin trembled violently. Virgil took a step forward and the world tilted dangerously. _What are you doing_? Virgil asked himself as the tears burned his face. But he kept stepping forward, his steps heavy-footed as he reached the shelf. Virgil’s breath caught in his throat. Fifty journals, all numbered, all holding the only words Virgil would ever use again. He exhaled, and a layer of dust disappeared on one of them. _The fifty first._

His hand moved before Virgil even realized what he was doing. _The fifty first_. The dust felt like needles against his skin, and yet Virgil couldn’t put the journal back. He couldn’t. Even though this journal was slim, smaller than the other journals. But maybe it was the picture of Patton and himself peering back at him that made his hesitation. Patton was smiling cheerfully at him, and Virgil was in mid-eye roll. It was the few pictures he had of Patton. Because Virgil didn’t think that he needed any. After all, Patton would forever be in his life, why need a picture?

Tearing his gaze from the picture, Virgil yanked the journal open. His heart jumped into his throat as the title of his final poem. _Ameliorate_. It had been such an enchanting word. But now, as he stared at it, he couldn’t help the wave of revulsion consume him. No words were pretty anymore.

It did not stop his wandering eyes from reading.

_Does the sun die,_

_When it’s rays disappear_

_From those prying eyes?_

_Is it the longing for the light,_

_That keeps the sun from no longer appearing_

_At the defending death of night?_

Oh, Virgil could answer those questions now. He knew, he _knew_ they had meant to be left unanswered. But the sun did die. The sun died when the dusk and death of the night became _selfish_ , and stole away the sun. When Patton gave into his greed, graced him with _love_ and _poetry_. But Virgil killed him, because the sun was never supposed to meet the night.

It was _Virgil’s_ fault that Patton died. It was _Virgil_ who ripped away Patton from the world who needed him. It was _Virgil_ who was given the superficial sympathies from the neighbors. It was _Virgil_ who heard others crying out for Patton.

Virgil didn’t deserve anything of Patton.

He turned around, and for once ever since Patton had died, Virgil found purpose. He knew, without words, what he was supposed to do. He stepped towards his desk, his eyes focusing on the candle’s dancing flame. Patton had been the light to Virgil. _Maybe I became too attached_ , he thought distantly. No one in their right mind cared for someone this much, could they?

Virgil took another step forward, exhaling as his grip on the journal tightened.

He would never see Patton again. _Breathe in._

He would never write again. _Breathe out_.

He would never live again. _Breathe in_.

Virgil lifted the journal to the candle. _Breathe out_.

_He was devoid of poetry._

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr's @thesides so come scream at me if you so wish,,
> 
> also shout out to the people who know which poem this might be inspired by.
> 
> also this is unedited so wHOOPS


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